


Pieced, Glued, and Properly Jointed

by DeathValleyQueen



Series: To Create Such a Ruin [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, BDSM, Extremely Dark, M/M, Minor Character Death, Revenge, dark!AU, dark!john, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathValleyQueen/pseuds/DeathValleyQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Rechienbach, John has grown angry at those he feels are responsible for Sherlock's suicide. With the help of a "friend" he begins to get his revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieced, Glued, and Properly Jointed

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT: Be forewarned that this is an exceptionally dark piece of AU. It depicts the graphic deaths of several characters as well as an extremely unhealthy emotional and sexual relationship. I wanted to play with vengeful!John and this is the result. I don't promote violence or any other action that John takes during this story. If dark fic or Dark!John upsets you then please, PLEASE go find another fic to read. Many thanks to Mq who put in the time to beta read for me. Her comments made all the difference in this fic.
> 
> The title of this piece comes from the poem "The Colossus" by Sylvia Plath. I highly recommend reading it before reading the fic. The following is a link to the poem http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/sylviaplath/1441

The dark hotel room was so very still afterwards that John could hear each drop of blood dripping into the carpet. He wasn’t worried about anyone walking in; there would be no one. So he took a moment to savor, licking his lips to almost taste the copper saltiness. He tilted his head to study the work of art that was the dead Sally Donovan, brains smashed in with her own nightstick. All that beauty now washed away in gore, pounded in with a weapon of justice.

 

Poor Sally, John thought as he took off the too-large shoes and placed them into an already-prepared plastic bag. He shoved the nightstick in, as well as the shirt and pants that hung loose on him. He felt much more comfortable without the other man’s clothing. The medical gloves stayed on as he tied up the bag.

 

Before he left John took one final look at Sally: her eyes, still large and scared, opened wide; her pale lips parted in one final cry of terror; her hair clung to itself with blood while bits of her tiny little brain decorated the wall and bed frame. The masterpiece had been more than a month in planning and now it was all finished. It felt good, fulfilling, the way it always did.

 

After putting on his real clothes, John walked calmly out of the room, shutting the door and putting up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle. There was, he knew, a bit of a spring in his step. He went out the back door of the hotel and started walking. London sank into stillness in the growing night and he met no one on his way to the Thames. As he sauntered down the streets he whistled, looking up at the stars to admire their beauty. He tossed the plastic bag into the water, smiling as he heard the following splash. He slipped off his gloves as he took out his phone and auto-dialed before it reached his ear.

 

“Content, then?” came the now familiar voice.

 

“Very. You’re certain Anderson lacks an alibi?”

 

“Oh yes. I told you there was no call to worry, didn’t I? Your ride is waiting.”

 

On cue, the black car pulled up beside him and John got in. Now that the thrill of having it done with was gone, a new need swam through him. Adrenaline sang up and down his veins. He _wanted,_ though he couldn’t be sure what he wanted. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to run. He wanted to bathe in the glory of a job well done. His fingers tapped on his knees as he looked out the window. All of London was sleeping but he was so very awake.

 

When the car at last stopped, John got out and hurried into the flat. (Not Baker Street anymore. Not since…) He came in with a simple push to find his roommate and criminal financer waiting for him on the love seat listening to classical music. Jim Moriarty grinned at him.

 

“You look all wired, Johnny Boy.”

 

John looked around and then right at Jim, asking silently for what was needed. Jim pushed him back onto the couch and then climbed into John’s lap. He wrapped one hand around John’s neck and squeezed. John let out a gasp and then their lips slotted together. Wet, hot kisses followed. Teeth bit John’s lip and fingers pulled at his hair or squeezed his throat. Eventually the kisses stop leaving John hard but with the sure knowledge that Jim would ease the pressure.

 

“Doesn’t that feel better,” Jim’s fingers came up to the back of John’s neck, rubbing out the stress. A fresh kiss against his ear followed before a whispered order. “Tell me everything.”

 

*****

_“Tell me everything,” John growled, his gun out and pointed at Moriarty’s chest._

_For his part, Moriarty was all smiles. “Put the gun away, Johnny boy, that won’t save you here.” He nodded to the little red dots turning John’s white jumper into a polka-dot pattern. “I got one for you, Johnny. What’s white and red all over? You, when my men blow holes in you.”_

_“You think I care if I die?” John’s voice and hand were perfectly steady. “You think I care if those bullets rip me apart? As long as I get in one shot you’ll be dead.”_

_“Think your aim is that good, do you?”_

_“Oh, I know it is.”_

_For a moment there was silence between them. “Nooo,” Moriarty said, shaking his head. “You want to live. Because you know revenge on me isn’t really what you want.”_

_John laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure it is.”_

_“I’m not the one who  pushed Sherlock over the edge. I’m not the disease; I’m only a symptom. You know who the real problems are.” Moriarty took a step forward while names floated into John’s head (Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Kitty Riley, dozens of reporters who wrote about Sherlock after… and before). “All those ordinary people who couldn’t stand how extraordinary Sherlock was. Couldn’t see him like you could.”_

_(“Hello, Freak,” “We found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath,” “You repel me,” “He gets off on it,” “No one is that clever.”)_

_For the first time since he walked in, John’s hand began to shake. Moriarty saw it and grinned impossibly wider, looking like nothing so much as a jack-o-lantern. “There it is. The anger. You can blame me for what they did but in the end you know they wanted Sherlock to be a fraud. They wanted him to fail. And so he did. All because they just didn’t believe.”_

_“Why shouldn’t that keep me from killing you?” John asked, hand steadying as he reined in his rage. “You’re just as much part of that fall as they were.”_

_“Well for starters if you kill me you can’t kill them,” Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. “Revenge isn’t so easy from beyond the grave. For another, you’re no good at committing crimes. You may have the raw power but you don’t have the skill sets. How are you going to get at members of Scotland Yard? To all those reporters? To Mycroft Holmes? Kill me, Johnny, and you’ll be caught in a day.”_

_“And if I spare your pathetic life?”_

_John knew the answer before it was even out of Moriarty’s mouth. “You agree to join me and I agree to help you get at all those ordinaries. One. By. One.”_

_*****_

The gavel banging echoed in the court room. John sat in the back, dressed in a sharp, Westwood suit as he watched the jury file in. Although he could just make out the back of Anderson’s head and shoulders, he knew Anderson was crying from the way those shoulders shook. John’s face remained perfectly blank as the foremen stood up. Not even a hint of a smile graced him when the verdict of guilt was said and Anderson doubled over where he stood. Victory rose like fire inside and it took some effort to keep that glory off his face. He stood, straightened his suit, and walked out of the court room.

 

Lestrade was in the hall, shaking his head. “I just can’t believe it,” he said, rubbing his face. “I’ve known them for years and I can’t picture Anderson doing anything like this. But all the evidence… I don’t know what to believe.” He looked at John for comfort and John did not disappoint.

 

Putting a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, he shook his head. “Sometimes we don’t know what we are capable of until put under extreme stress. I know that was what it was like for me in the army. It must have just gotten too much for him: the job, the wife, the mistress… Poor Sally.”

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade (John almost laughed at the title) looked like he might cry at that and nodded. “Yeah, poor Sally. She loved her work. And she loved Anderson. I wish I could have done something. Seen the signs at least.”

 

“We never see the signs in the ones we are closest to.”

 

At the words, Lestrade nodded and said “Like with Sherlock.”

 

John almost broke character then. It took more effort than it should have not pounce on him and rip his throat out with his teeth. John closed his eyes and counted (one, two, three) before nodding slowly. “Yes. Like with Sherlock.”

 

Lestrade seemed to take that pause as pain and looked somewhat sorry for saying anything. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. He was a friend to you. And to me. Or so I thought.”

 

You were no friend of his, John thought. But he smiled and nodded. “You want to get a drink?” He asked. “Calm your nerves a bit?”

 

“No. No I just want to go home and sleep. But thanks, John. Thanks for being around. I know that it was hard for you after everything but I am truly grateful you kept in touch with me.”

 

“That’s what friends do,” John said with a caring smile, “look out for each other.” John had hoped Lestrade would feel some joy at the death of the woman who falsely accused Sherlock. Maybe Lesdtrade’s life would have been spared then.

 

*****

_“You know,” John said as he slid his knife across the sharpening stone, “You’ll be my first one. Well, first one that counted. Moriarty,” He looked at her then, “You know him, right? Of course you do, though you knew him as another name. His fake name.” For a moment he looked ready to strike but then was back to the calm “shhhhhink” of the blade on the stone. “Anyway, Moriarty thought I should practice. Learn to do it proper. The man is, of course, out of his mind but I must admit he has a point. I would have hated to do this sloppily. I mean, it would just be rude to get it over quickly when the pain you gave me will last ages.”_

_Reporter Kitty Riley looked so very scared drugged and motionless on the floor. What little sounds she could make were all tiny pleas for this to end. She kept saying ‘not real’ and John was quick enough to understand. Even now she was trying to convince him Moriarty wasn’t real._

_John pressed the blunt end of his weapon against her lips. “Hush,” he said, shaking his hand. “You’ll only make me very angry.” When she was no longer speaking but making quiet sounds of sorrow, he went back to work._

_“Do you wonder what they’ll say about you in the paper? Your paper I mean?” He was done sharpening and now straddled her stomach. “Will they mourn you? Say you died too young? Or that you were too eager after your big break with Sherlock Holmes, running out where you shouldn’t be, sticking your nose into dangerous places on tips from sources you don’t even know? What a shame, they’ll all say. She could have been great._

_“But here’s the thing. Sherlock didn’t have to wait to be amazing. He already was. Until you, with your small brain, decided to listen to a liar.” He shook his head as if he pitied her. “He was so brilliant and so … human. But you wouldn’t know that because all you saw was a bloody story.” John hit her hard across the face, pleased by the tears that ran uselessly down her face._

_“Everything he did for this bloody city, for you fucking stupid people. And you repay him by calling him a liar.” Another punch to her face. “Were you afraid of him? Of someone so smart? Or did you just want to feel fucking special?”_

_His fist made contact with her over and over again until his breathing was labored. He grabbed her by the hair and whispered into her ear. “Do you know what makes you special? Having the most brilliant man in the world think you are worth keeping. Do you know what having him gone is doing to me? No. Of course not. You are too fucking thick to get it.”_

_Letting go of her hair, he watched her head bounce off the pavement. The fall wasn’t enough to knock her out, just enough to hurt like hell. John was shaking as he fisted the knife in his hand. His eyes met hers, pleased at the panic. “He was so much better than you, you dull, stupid, ordinary bitch.”_

_The blade went in. Once. Twice. Five times. Ten. John stabbed without hurry, into her lungs first, into her stomach, then into her heart, her neck, anywhere he wanted. He kept going long after she stopped being._

_Over and done he stood, panting. It felt good. It was his first real taste of getting revenge and it was every inch as sweet as he had dreamed. He licked the blood from the knife. She tasted so good it was a shame he only got to kill her once. He had been worried that it wouldn’t feel so great to finally start. But he’d killed so much over the last few weeks that now there was only the joy of killing someone he wanted instead of someone Moriarty wanted. Now, at last, the game was just as much his. He began to laugh._

_*****_

The rain pelted them as John guided a mumbling Lestrade away from the bar. “I swore I only ordered one drink,” he repeated.

 

“Well trust me, it was a lot more than that,” John shook his head as he led Lestrade down an allyway. “You’re just lucky the owner is an old friend or you’d have been in a lot more trouble. Six shots, Greg, I thought you were getting over Sally and Anderson. It’s been nearly two months.”

 

Lestrade shook his head. “It can’t have been… I don’t… I feel dizzy.”

 

John nodded. “Yes, I don’t blame you. The drugs are probably getting worse now.”

 

Another moan and Lestrade’s already wobbly steps faltered still more. “Drugs? What drugs?”

 

“In a moment. I need that taxi.” John lifted his hand and the taxi stopped. John helped the sluggish, slightly resistant Lestrade inside and then got in himself. The driver turned and looked at John quickly, a shark’s smile on his face before he started away.

 

“You see, I had to drug you because it was the only way to make it all convincing.” John pulled on some rubber gloves. And then took a pill case from his inside pocket.

 

It was clear Lestrade was trying to gain control of the world around him and was finding himself unable to do so. “John, what is this? What are you doing?”

 

“Oh no, this is not about what I’m doing. It’s about what you did. This is about what you failed to do. How you failed to protect Sherlock. How you failed to believe him. And how you failed, utterly and completely, to be his friend.”

 

Now Lestrade was starting to whimper and grab at his head. “John this isn’t you. I just… I need to lie down.”

 

John made a small sound of false pity. “Oh my dear Detective Inspector. This is me.” He took hold of his former friend’s hair and pulled his head back. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hello to Sally in hell. I put her there.”

 

“No,” Lestrade whimpered, closing his eyes.

 

“Yes. And framed Anderson. Oh, and you remember Kitty Riley? Her too. And so many more. But now it is your turn.”

 

To his credit, Lestrade struggled as John forced pill after pill down his throat. He’d just got the last one in when they pulled up to Lestrade’s home and John began to pull Lestrade up to the stairs. “Everything’s ready,” he told Lestrade. John sat Lestrade on the bathroom toilet. “All the pills in your name, the prescriptions you had me write for you. It’ll be so easy. Suicide. Just like Sherlock.”

 

“Please,” Lestrade said. “John, my friend…” He could hardly keep his eyes open now.

 

John patted his cheek. “I’m not your friend, Lestrade. Not after what you did to him.” He stood back and watched it happen. Watched Lestrade began to choke on his own vomit. It was not a pretty death. John didn’t want to leave any of them with pretty corpses, not when he could still see the smashed face of his best friend.

 

“I think he looks better this way,” Jim said, walking up behind John to wrap his arms around John’s waist. “So much more interesting covered in his own mess.” A wet tongue slid across John’s neck and to his ear. “If it wouldn’t leave unwanted DNA everywhere I’d take you right here.”

 

*****

_This hadn’t been part of the plan. It had always been about using Moriarty and then killing him; he was not supposed to find the man’s company enjoyable. But the more John tried not to see Sherlock in Moriarty the more he did. They were both clever, both insane, and both impossibly addictive when they lavished attention on you._

_Which might explain why John was in that dismal place with a baseball bat and a dead drug dealer at his feet. It was fascinating that he still twitched even after his blood had been used to spray-paint the ground. It reminded John of chickens for obvious, head-related reasons. He looked at his hand, so steady and sure and then down at his pants, attempting not to blush at the sight._

_“Don’t be ashamed,” Moriarty said, stepping up behind him and rubbing a hand against the obvious bulge. “It’s perfectly fine to like it, John.” A snake tongue shot out to pick up a spot of blood splattered on his cheek. The hand moved to unbutton his jeans. “It’s welcome, even. Let me teach you.”_

_“No,” John pushed him away, body shaking as he ran fingers through his hair. Jesus, what was wrong with him? Getting hard from… Jesus fuck. “No don’t, don’t touch me.” He pushed back to lean against the stone wall. His heart was beating rhythmically in his ears, reminding him that blood could, in fact, be flowing other places besides his dick._

_Rather than leave him alone, Moriarty moved closer to him. “Don’t deny it. Don’t deny the pleasures of life when there are so few. Come now. Let me show you.” John didn’t, couldn’t resist the hand that pressed itself into his pants._

_John felt he should resist but instead pressed his hips into Moriarty’s hand. He clung to Moriarty’s shoulders suddenly, needing something stable. “This… I can’t.”_

_“I know, Johnny boy. Don’t worry. Daddy knows what you need.”_

_*****_

“Jim.” The name pulled itself from his throat like a prayer. It sounded good, felt good to say and he knew that Jim enjoyed hearing it. Jim tugged suddenly at the choke chain and John’s breath literally stopped in his throat. It was a rush and he expressed his appreciation with a buck of his hips against Jim, already buried deep inside him.

 

Jim’s voice was full of debauched delight. “Look at you, Johnny pup,” he said even as he thrust violently in and out, not caring that every thrust came with a tug at the chain. The result was that John’s breaths were cut off suddenly as were the noises he made. “You’re twitching for this. It’s beautiful. A wonder no one ever thought to play this game with you before.”

 

John had extreme tunnel vision and he’d stopped wondering if the cause was Jim himself or the loss of air that came and went as Jim pleased. Either way he was harder then he’d been since the first time they used blood as lube.

 

“I know you want me to touch,” Jim purred. “But I won’t. You wanna come, you come from what I do to you.”

 

John didn’t struggle to image it. Jim tugged at the chain for longer intervals of time and the erratic thrusts meant he was just as close as John. Suddenly Jim pulled so hard John could feel the metal of the chain bite into his neck and blood slide down to his shoulders.

 

Always with his oral fixation, Jim leaned down and licked at the blood. “Mine,” he said just before pulling harder than ever, almost hard enough to drain the life from John.

 

Once, John would have been ashamed how pain and humiliation could get him off. Those days were over for him. His back arched in graceful ignorance of his wounded shoulder. He spilled across his chest and the bed before his arms gave way and left him on his shoulders. He couldn’t get his breath because Jim was still pulling.

 

“I could do it,” Jim told him. “I could kill you tight now.”

 

John nodded, waiting for it to happen. But Jim let the chain go slack and John’s breath returned, ragged and needy. The sound preceded Jim coming inside him and then standing to clean himself but not John. “Always fun, wolf cub. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to plan the murder of the British government. Come and join me when you’ve cleaned yourself.”

 

_* * *_

 

For the next month they argued. It began because Jim’s first plan was far too hands-off for John to find any satisfaction in the deed. John started out calmly explaining that not seeing the life leave Mycroft was unacceptable and no he would not be satisfied with blowing Mycroft up from a distance. So they argued and when they argued they tended to end up fucking against walls, desks, any flat surface, with Jim grasping John’s neck and squeezing.

 

They fought and butted heads the night Jim slapped a collar around John’s neck. It was black and thick, made of leather with a loop for dog tags, of which there were two. One of them said his own name on it. The other said “If found, return to owner: JM.”

 

John looked at his reflection in the mirror, reading the tags backwards and mulling them over in his head. He understood the ultimatum when he saw it.

 

After examining it, he walked out of the bathroom and into the living room. Jim looked up from his tea, eyes flicking to the collar still on John’s neck. “So then.” He said simply, sipping delicately from his cup.

 

“Semtex or sniper?” John didn’t sit at Jim’s heels but he leaned into the touch at the back of his neck that was all possession.

 

* * *

 

As John set up the rifle he tried not to think too poetically about killing his last victim in a cemetery. Maybe doing it by the grave was a kindness, after all, John would love to die draped in Sherlock’s embrace. But thanks in part to Mycroft he would never be able to do that. So Mycroft could fall dead hanging over Sherlock’s tombstone. Then John’s vengeance would be complete.

 

“What will you do when you finish?” Jim asked, leaning up against the car and tapping buttons furiously on his phone. “Go back to your ordinary life with your ordinary girlfriends and your boring job?”

 

“You know I can’t.” John triple-checked the gun, the ammunition, the sight. He would have no second shot if he missed. “I’m not that John Watson anymore.”

 

“No.” The joy was clear in Jim’s voice. “One minute and counting. So what will you do then?”

 

John swallowed, pressing his eye through the sight. “I don’t think that choice belongs exclusively to me anymore.”

 

It was the thing Jim wanted to hear; John knew instantly because the tapping on the phone stopped and then long fingers were in his hair. Those fingers moved down to trace the collar. “Whatever happens next, just remember whose name you’re wearing.”

 

The words confused John but he didn’t look away. The black car pulled up right on time. “Anthea” and then Mycroft got out and began walking along side each other. Mycroft had flowers and the umbrella. He didn’t look nearly heartbroken enough to suit John. Well, he wouldn’t be feeling much very soon.

 

Waiting for his moment was key. Since he wouldn’t be watching the light die from Mycroft’s eyes up close, he had to make sure he got a brilliant shot. The heartbeat in his ears must have been excitement because he had never been less nervous in his life. When Mycroft arrived at Sherlock’s grave, John’s finger held still on the trigger. He let out a breath, eyes open.

 

Then a figure stepped out from the shadows. Everything in the world jumped back a step because that looked like… “Sherlock?” John whispered softly. He was there. He was alive, chatting with his brother as if it was just another day. Sherlock wasn’t dead. Not at all.

 

Before the world found the right dimension John felt those fingers tug at the collar. “Remember who you are.”

 

Words swarmed like locusts in his mind. John realized his hand was shaking. The window was closing. It was now or never. What could he do? Sherlock, his Sherlock, alive. Now. Now that his Watson was gone.

 

The recoil hit his good shoulder, but John didn’t take his eyes away. Anthea fell and in a moment the Holmes brothers were in motion. Sherlock’s eyes went from Anthea to the graves around them, looking for the danger. Mycroft was down by the girl, giving CPR that would do nothing (John knew where he had hit her. There was no waking from that). Meanwhile, Mycroft’s bodyguards came running. John lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock turn in their direction, gazing through the trees to find them. It was worth seeing the look of horror to lose the extra few seconds in their get-away.

 

“You knew, of course,” John said on the drive home.

 

“Obviously. Don’t be dull, Johnny Boy. What the angels fake the devil can fake better.” Jim hadn’t stopped smiling since they got in the car. “You shot the girl. A message I assume. You wanted him to see you.”

 

John’s fingers slid over the collar. “I couldn’t have asked for better revenge.” He turned, grinning. “When can we start playing?”

 

Jim’s laugh echoed through the car.


End file.
